Free-man stand, or free-man fa', By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! Forward! let us do, or die! BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. MONTGOMERY. HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung Let thy numbers, soft and slow, Bright as Venus newly born, Blushing at her maiden charms; Fresh from ocean rose the morn, When the trumpet blew to arms. O that time had stay'd his flight, Ere that morning left the main! Fatal as th' Egyptian night, When the eldest born were slain Lash'd to madness by the wind, Roll'd upon the British host. Dauntless these their station held, Thrice return'd through blood and fire. Now the veteran chief drew nigh; Britain saw him thus advance, In her guardian angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile France Like the Dæmon of the storm. On the whirlwind of the war, dire; High he rode in vengeance 'Twas the carnival of death! 'Twas the vintage of the grave! Charg'd with Abercrombie's doom, And the hero felt the call. Felt-and rais'd his arm on high; And the force of France o'erthrew, But the horrors of that fight, Were the weeping Muse to tell, Gash'd with honourable scars, Yet shall memory mourn that day, Of her soldier far away, The poor widow hears the tale. In imagination wild, She shall wander o'er this plain; Gently, from the western deep, Let thy numbers soft and slow None but solemn, tender tones, ! weepst Hush!-while sorrow wakes and Then thy tones triumphant pour, O how sweetly sleep the brave! From the dust their laurels bloom, Death is immortality! LINES, Written before Flushing the night previous to the Bombardment. ANONYMOUS. SLOW from the bosom of the silent deep, Majestic, o'er the level of the main," Close to the fort Britaunia's bulwarks rise; Hush'd are the clamours of the fearless train, Whose loud buzza but lately rent the skies. D Led, Cynthia, by thy silver beam, I trace And, daring, ask of heaven, Why this has been? Say, what is honour?-Tell me, what is fame? A glittering bubble, borne upon the flood! Shall man, to gain a transitory name, Sully the green turf with a brother's blood! Who wars but for a name, no better cause When glory's ensign is with slaughter dy'd! Coote, 'twas thy country bade thee lead thy band, To snatch this island from a tyrant's sway; Thy enemies confess a father's hand, And mercy well deserves the poet's lay. But ah! tho' Coote and mercy gave the word, Still ruthless war low'rs on 'th affrighted ball; Pity, with tears, beholds the hostile sword, And mourns the victims who are doom'd to fall. Now all is still and peaceable around, And carnage ceases till the night is o'er; When the hoarse cannon, with appalling sound, Shall bid the active warrior" Sleep no more." To-morrow's sun shall view in dread array, Perhaps upon this spot may virtue fall; True love may here resign in pangs its breath; The child's, the wife's, the parent's little all May sink for ever in the shades of death: And, hark! I hear the widow's plaintive cry, |